


Modus Operandi

by ifnot_winter



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Codependent Winchesters (Supernatural), Emotional Baggage, Emotional Constipation, Emotionally Repressed Winchesters (Supernatural), Emotions, Feelings, Guilt, Hero Worship, Incest, Introspection, John Winchester's A+ Parenting, Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Obsession, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Roughness, Shame, Sibling Incest, The Winchesters' (Supernatural) Terrible Lives, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-14
Updated: 2018-11-14
Packaged: 2019-08-23 16:52:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16622741
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ifnot_winter/pseuds/ifnot_winter
Summary: Guilt floods him when he admits to himself that even with all the love still flicker-fade-simmering in the depths of his soul for Jess, always behind the layers of carefully constructed normal there was a lingeringsomethingthat didn't quite fit. The nagging half-remembered riff of a song the name of which was forever on the tip of his tongue, drifting just out of reach, or the phantom smell of smoke and gun oil dogging him through his years at Stanford like a poem from that Brit-Lit elective about the scent of roses clinging to the air 'round a vase when the petals have long since withered and fallen away.





	Modus Operandi

**Disclaimer:** Not mine. I wish.

Originally published 05-27-06, part of an ongoing project to shift all of my ancient fanworks to ao3.

\+ + +

There are moments, in the time between here and there and the next vision, next con, next monster-under-the-bed looking to be deported back to whatever hell spawned it; sprawled across one more questionable paisley-and-cigarette-burn patterned bedspread for a bit of down-time and weapon maintenance in the next in a long line of roach motels, or in the rare companionable silences between AC/DC and The Scorpions with miles of empty interstate and the flat of the mid-west painted in gunmetal shades of pre-dawn blue and grey stretching forever between horizons, when their breathing falls in tandem and something deep in Sam twists and clicks into place and he thinks, _yes, yes exactly_ , and there is nothing but them and breath and inches, and it doesn't matter that this is no life for anyone to be living, because everything he _needs_ is right beside him, close enough to touch.

His eyes flick briefly to Dean, faint stubble shading the strong jawline, eyes narrowed with focus for the task at hand, and the memory of all those things he wanted, strived, fought so hard for has all the hazy greyscale of dreamscape in the face of this dark-yet-brilliant, sharp-edged, terribly _real_ man before him.

Guilt floods him when he admits to himself that even with all the love still flicker-fade-simmering in the depths of his soul for Jess, always behind the layers of carefully constructed normal there was a lingering _something_ that didn't quite fit. The nagging half-remembered riff of a song the name of which was forever on the tip of his tongue, drifting just out of reach, or the phantom smell of smoke and gun oil dogging him through his years at Stanford like a poem from that Brit-Lit elective about the scent of roses clinging to the air 'round a vase when the petals have long since withered and fallen away.

Stubborn and cloying and addictive, like the metallic aftertaste of wrath or desire. Like the grit of grave dirt beneath his nails in the moments before the satisfying descent of a match and consequent rush of flame, licking at the edges of secondhand memories.

Like Dean.

They don't talk about it. It's just something that's there, lying between them like the strange, soothing harmony of raindrops falling to capture the blaze of blue skies and sunlight the morning after they'd dealt with that poltergeist in Savannah; something that simply _is_. As they are.

Dean's mouth crashes into his and Sam can taste the ashes of the slow-dying hopes of a freckle-dusted boy-soldier and two decades' worth of fermented tears, and the lingering traces of the cigarettes Dean doesn't think Sam knows he keeps tucked in the inner pocket of his leather jacket, beside a slim silver-plated switchblade and a vial of holy water. His hands rise to bruise Dean's shoulders through layers of fabric, then slide upward to cup Dean's jaw, five-o'clock shadow rasping against the calluses on his palms.

He pushes his fingers through short hair stiffened by too much product, grasps, tilts Dean's head back so he can press nearer, deeper, anchored by the hands on his hips, Dean's fingers creeping up to trace tender sigils on the skin at the small of Sam's back, love and protection and so much need, and Sam knows that he's the only one let in close enough to the meticulously cast bronze of John's devoted spear-carrier to see the hairline fractures and rare glimpses into the flawed and beautiful man beneath.

His lips form Dean's name like a mute prayer, movement and soft echoes of breath against his brother's bruised mouth in the space between kisses. Sam nuzzles Dean's mouth and palms his waist, offering support when the concerted assault of lips, teeth, and tongue makes Dean's knees waver, Sam's tongue pressing, licking into him with intent alternately teasing and soul-deep, tasting the edges of the dark places where Dean keeps his secrets locked so tightly away. He draws back and drops a line of moist kisses across the flush rising beneath the fine dusting of freckles on Dean's cheeks.

Caught in the sweet rough slide of their lips is a cascade of needful sounds that could be accredited to either of them, grasping at one another with such fitful desperation and want, driven by the swift coil of desire that starts low in the gut and spirals ever downward like a reverse halo, drawing awareness inward and to the immediacy of now, of skin and the wildfire throb of their pulse, singular, hearts beating in tandem, dizzying them with the heat of being pressed so close, closer, never close enough.


End file.
